Hear a Woman Singing
by kerithwyn
Summary: Astrid has a special request. [alt-Astrid/alt-Lincoln]


Hear a Woman Singing

Fandom: Fringe

Characters: Alternate Lincoln Lee/Alternate Astrid Farnsworth

Rating: Mature

Wordcount: ~3,700

Summary: Astrid has a special request.

Special Note: Obviously, when trying to write about a neuroatypical character, online research can only take you so far. If I have erred or offended, don't hesitate to call me out on it.

Thanks to samjohnsson for beta.

Written for the Fringe kinkmeme using the following prompt:

Lincoln (either one) puts himself up as a date in a charity auction. Who buys him?

* * *

><p>It's for a good cause, Charlie tells him earnestly, as if Lincoln really needed to be convinced. Being paraded in front of a crowd, all vying for his attention <em>and<em> raising money for Amber victims' families at the same time? Lincoln had nearly sprained something in his dash to sign up.

There are rules set in place, of course, and all the auction bidding is to be done through proxies so that the buyers remain anonymous. There's no expectation set on the dates themselves, which are left to the discretion of the buyer and the bought. The pool of potential bidders is carefully vetted to avoid troublemakers and besides, all of the auction-ees are Fringe agents.

Blah, blah, blah, details. The only thing Lincoln's really interested in is speculating on who might bid on him. "I bet Karen in HR will. And Michael on the response team, he always stares at my ass when we're out on a call."

"Changed my mind," Charlie finally grumbles. "This was a terrible idea."

Lincoln sneers at him. "Just jealous you probably won't be able to afford me."

"Already can't get rid of you, why should I pay for extra annoyance?"

"_Jealous_," Lincoln hisses again, while Charlie rolls his eyes. "But you're not signing up?"

Charlie snorts at him. "Unlike you, I still have some dignity."

"Overrated," Lincoln throws back, and loses himself in daydreams of-yes, of being _bought_-by some tall, dark, handsome (or short, or perfectly average, he's not picky) bidder.

* * *

><p>Finally the day of the event arrives. Liv calls early: "Just remember, it's not a <em>naked<em> auction," she says into his ear, laughing more sarcastically than he thinks he deserves. He did, after all, know that. Even if he'd given the mesh shirt more than a half-second's consideration.

It's a lively affair, with free-flowing champagne encouraging bidders to open their wallets. Lincoln sends a few idle bids to his proxy, but he's too wound up to keep up with the bidding, so he just makes a donation to the charity and sits back to watch the action until his turn is up. Everyone on the stage is having a good time with it, innuendo is flowing like water, and the vibe of the room is giving him a better high than any drug, legal or otherwise.

One of the runners finds him in the crowd to let him know he'll be up soon, and Lincoln makes his way backstage. The auctioneer's assistant smiles shyly at him. "Lot of people waiting for you. Wish I had a chance, but..." he shrugs. "Out of my league."

"You're- David, right?" Lincoln's seen the guy around, one of the computer techs. Dark hair, unremarkable features. And now that Lincoln's close enough to really see him, pretty hazel eyes.

The look he gets is answer enough, David looking happily stunned to be recognized. "Y-yeah. Captain Lee, I just want to thank you for all the work you do. My cousin was nearly caught in an incident in Middletown a couple months ago, and you and your team got her out."

There've been so many incidents it's impossible to recall any single one. And the hero worship is great, but misplaced. "It's you guys who keep _us_ alive, so I should be thanking you. In fact..." he glances at the stage, where a bidding war seems to have broken out over Zoe-body of a supermodel, mind like a steel trap-so he's got a minute or two. "Let me buy you a drink after this? As long as you promise never to call me 'Captain Lee' again."

David sputters for a second before managing a "yes." It's adorable, and Lincoln sort of wants to remind him who the uber-nerd in this scenario really is.

"Great. It's a date, then," Lincoln says, and leans in to steal a kiss. It's unfair, probably, but Lincoln's just high enough on the atmosphere not to care. Besides, he is genuinely grateful for the guy's work, and he's done more for less reason. But the kiss is just what he needed to ramp his adrenaline up for the show he's about to put on.

David isn't half as shy as he looks once Lincoln's made his intent clear, and the hand on his ass is making him regret that he has a previous engagement when there's the sound of a throat being cleared behind him. "You wanna bring that on stage? Bet it'd really get the bidding going."

Lincoln breaks off, laughing, and David grins at him through his blush. "I thought we were trying to avoid an X-rating on this thing. 'Cause if we're not-"

The throat-clearer-Rebecca from the admin staff, go figure she'd be the one keeping the auction rolling-just snorts at him. "Lucky you're just as cute as you think you are. Now get out there and put it to good use."

He mouths "Later!" to David, takes a breath, and walks out on stage.

Stephen from accounting gets roped into being the representative of the division whenever there's an event that demands a commanding presence, graced as he is with a voice like an old-school radio announcer and a booming baritone that barely requires the microphone. "Here he is, ladies and gentlemen, your dream date and mine, Captain Lincoln Lee of the science team!" The screen at the side of the stage begins to flash with bids, and Stephen laughs. "I see we've got a roomful of people eager for Captain Lee's attention. All right, then, we'll skip the formalities: I see fifty, sixty, one hundred, do I hear- one hundred twenty, one hundred _fifty_,-"

It turns out Lincoln barely has to put on a show, after all; the bids are flying in so fast that Stephen can't take his eyes off the screen reporting the proxies' offers. Lincoln doesn't bother with posing or shaking his ass to the audience, instead scanning the crowd and trying to make eye contact with those who look like they're signaling to a proxy on their cuff. He gets a lot of smiles and winks in return, happily reflected in the bidding. Liv and Charlie had pushed their way to the front of the crowd and were both "helping" with wolf-whistles and catcalls. Despite their efforts, the numbers keep going up.

"Six hundred, seven, nine- that's a thousand dollars for charity, let's keep it going, eleven hundred, twelve fifty-" Another bid flashes on screen and Stephen booms out, "Three thousand!"

There's a complete hush, and then thunderous applause. It's all over but Stephen calling the count and then Lincoln hears Liv saying wryly to Charlie, "He'll never let this go."

Lincoln grins to himself as Rebecca hustles him offstage. He's _thrilled_ to have brought in so much money for the charity, of course, but it's a hell of a personal high as well. The question on his mind, naturally, is if there's anyone he knows who could afford to spend so much-and if it is someone he knows, why they felt they had to buy him to get a date.

It's a puzzle, but one he's willing to let simmer until the time comes. Anticipation, the spice of life and all that. Besides, he has David to keep him very pleasant company for a couple of days.

Life in the division goes on as usual over the next few weeks, with new ribbing from the rest of the agents about the unrevealed buyer. Liv and Charlie keep coming up with ever-more outrageous options.

"Maybe it's some Saudi prince."

"Maybe it's the president."

"No, Her Royal Majesty bought herself a new consort."

-but it's all moot until the day Lincoln actually gets the request for his presence, to fulfill the obligation. He picks clothing carefully for the event, not certain about where he's going, and still feels a little underdressed when the limo shows up to whisk him away.

* * *

><p>Lincoln wouldn't have been surprised by a fancy restaurant, or even a hotel of any stripe. But as the limo rolls into an area he recognizes, special housing for certain government agents, he begins to get a hunch about where he's going.<p>

The limo stops in front of a nondescript building and the driver comes around to let him out. "Third floor, sir. The door is open."

He heads up and finds the apartment, one of only two on the whole floor. Lincoln opens the door onto a large but austere, nearly sterile apartment. The furniture is minimalistic, and there's no adornment on the walls. He does catch the heady scent of rich spices from farther in, and a moment after he's closed the door behind him, his host appears.

"Hello, Captain Lee."

"Hello, Agent Farnsworth," he returns, taking her cue. She's dressed as he always sees her, Fringe uniform khakis and ever-present beret-and incongruously, a pink apron. "Thank you for your bid, at the auction. That was incredibly generous."

"I thought this was the most efficient way."

It's a strange enough response that he has to ask. "'Efficient way' to what?"

"Gain sexual experience," Farnsworth says, and suddenly many, many things become clear.

"Agent- _Astrid_," Lincoln says, scrambling for an even tone, "I'm extremely flattered, thank you."

"But you're going to refuse." Her eyes are glued to the floor.

The speed at which she leaps to the assumption isn't a surprise, but the substance troubles him and he realizes that he needs to be very, very clear. "I'm not refusing."

Astrid's hands begin to twist around themselves in a pattern Lincoln recognizes as distress, or at least uncertainty. He wants very badly to walk over and hold them, but he does know better. "Astrid, let's start over. You're making dinner?"

Her hands still. "Yes. I'm a very good cook if the recipes are right." She frowns, the expression almost a pout. "Sometimes they aren't but that is not my fault."

"I know exactly what you mean. I cook sometimes, too. Tell me what you're doing?"

She nods and walks back into the kitchen, already starting to list off a complicated recipe by memory, and Lincoln follows. He listens, but he's also thinking very, very fast.

The Looker program, he knows, finds children who were identified very early in their development as having...certain qualities. Syndromes such as autism could now be caught and reshaped through gene therapy and intensive training. Astrid can interface with a computer faster than Lincoln can read, and her mind can calculate multiple possible outcomes for any given situation. But the underlying condition remains, triggering varying degrees of emotional distance, difficulty in social situations, and sensitivity to stimuli.

For Astrid to reach out this way, he realizes, must have taken tremendous fortitude.

On the other hand, it would be a mistake to think of her as an innocent, or in any way unaware of what she was asking. Lookers read _everything_. She probably has "The Joy of Sex" memorized as clearly as the division handbook.

He's not going to ask her about that. Yet.

And it's not actually the first time he's been chosen for this particular...undertaking. But all ego aside (and it is an ego-boost, no question, as if he needed more of that), all he really needs to decide is whether or not he's going to agree to her request.

It's not a decision, at all. If he thinks of her like any other woman-like any other _friend_ making this request, and he does-there's no consideration necessary.

-and of course Lincoln starts to second-guess himself the moment he reaches that conclusion, but there's no one he can talk to about it; Astrid paid an shocking amount for his company and that includes all the discretion he can muster. (And for that matter, he's not at all troubled by the idea that he's been paid for sex. The money isn't his, he has all the freedom in the world to say no, and there are no obligations except the ones he agrees to.)

Astrid is still going through the steps she'd used to construct the pastilla, and Lincoln snaps to attention with something she'd just said. "Wait, you made warka dough from _scratch_? It's not phyllo?"

"Of course," she says, with a look and tone so matter-of-fact that he has to laugh, and for more than one reason.

"You sounded exactly like my mother, there." Maybe it's not the best association considering their current circumstances, but it's true. "She's a chef and wouldn't dream of using anything she hadn't made herself."

"Eminently sensible," Astrid nods with approval. "I believe dinner is ready, if you would care to wash up first."

It's clearly a suggestion she'd prefer he take and a good idea in any case, so he makes his way toward the small bathroom at the back, noting the spare décor along the way.

When he returns the small kitchen table is set with plain white plates, and Astrid is dusting the heavy pan with cinnamon and sugar-a pleasingly light touch on the latter, he notes-as a final touch. "We can have the tomato salad while this cools."

The salad is deceptively simple, but Astrid's expertly balanced the spices and made the extra effort to acquire fresh tomatoes, which must have cost her a fortune. Lincoln knows better than to comment on it; the expense would no doubt fall under the category of "anything worth doing is worth doing well." Given Astrid's training and inclinations, she's unlikely to settle for half-measures on anything.

Including- Lincoln cuts off the next thought with an internal grin and waits for her cues. Astrid doesn't seem interested in conversation as she eats neatly and efficiently. One step at a time, Lincoln thinks, and settles in to enjoy an extraordinary meal. When Astrid cuts open the pastilla, the scent that wafts out of it makes Lincoln's stomach growl loud enough that she hears it and darts him a quick glance and a smile. "That smells amazing," he says softly, and tries to let his otherwise silent-but-sincere appreciation for her efforts speak for the rest.

When they're done Astrid refuses to let him help clean up-there's hardly anything to do except put the leftovers away-and doesn't offer dessert, which is fine because he couldn't eat another bite anyway.

Astrid doesn't quite look at him as she says, "Shall we go to the bedroom now?"

It would have been a bad idea even if he hadn't just eaten a ridiculously heavy meal. But Lincoln had expected the suggestion. "Let's talk for a while."

"You said, 'I'm not refusing.'" Astrid has his inflection down pat.

"I'm not. It's just-" he almost reaches out for her, then reconsiders. "How would you react, if I touched you now?"

"I would be surprised. I might flinch. Would you like the percentages?" she says, like he'd asked her to calculate the chance of rain.

"No. But Astrid, extrapolate. I don't want to hurt you. You need to be comfortable with me before I'm even gonna try to kiss you."

She's silent for a long moment, and Lincoln can almost see the computations behind her eyes, variables of touch and sensitivity and trust. "...yes, I see. You require an emotional connection."

Lincoln sighs a little, he can't help it, and leans forward. He can't quite catch her eyes, but he can put as much sincerity into his voice as he can muster. "Yes, that's true, but I was talking about you. That's the least of what _you_ should require. "

She stands abruptly and starts to pace out into the living room, five precise steps and a turn and five again. It's a long several minutes before she says, "That would involve more time than one date."

"I know. That's fine by me."

She arches an eyebrow and keeps walking. "Given new variables, you are not required to accede to my request."

"I wasn't anyway. You- you know me, right? Would I have agreed if I didn't want to?"

She slants a sideways look his way. "Observation and your personal history suggest otherwise."

Lincoln pauses for a second because- well, if his reputation is helpful here, so be it. "So then you need to trust me when I tell you I wouldn't do this differently with anyone else."

"If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have bid," Astrid says simply, and he understands that it really is that simple, for her. "How do we proceed?"

He laughs, realizing how tight his shoulders are, how intensely he'd been focused on getting all his words right. "We talk. We watch silly movies together-or whatever you want," he amends to her critical look. "We sit together on the couch and eventually, you let me put my arm around you. You tell me how you're feeling and we go from there. It's- it's just how people get to know each other."

Astrid stops pacing and lets out an exasperated sigh. "Perhaps I should have simply hired a male prostitute. I had no idea you would be so difficult."

It takes Lincoln a second to realize she's _joking_ with him. Even if the mockery's at his expense, it's a good sign. "You said yourself, you trust me. Can't buy that. And besides, I'm worth the trouble."

"That's what the office gossip claims," Astrid fires back, and again it's so funny and sharp that Lincoln knows this is going to work out just fine.

* * *

><p>They arrange a schedule of dates over the next few weeks, and that alone is something unusual for Lincoln. He'd become so used to giving or picking up invitations on the fly, he's almost forgotten what a more formalized process of dating was like.<p>

It's with a certain measure of deference toward Astrid's request that Lincoln also decides, without any hint of a suggestion from her, not to see anyone else during those weeks. It feels like a good idea to moderate his extracurricular activities for awhile, if for no other reason than Astrid deserves his full attention.

He and Astrid talk a lot, mostly about cooking at first. She has a well developed, selective palate, very definitive and not at all shy about her likes and dislikes. Astrid's constraints don't extend to accepting an invitation to his apartment, but she does eventually allow him to borrow her pots and pans to concoct a meal in her kitchen. That particular dinner is only a fair success, but the attempt reminds Lincoln of hours spent in one of his mother's restaurant kitchens, and he resolves not to let those skills atrophy again.

They do watch tv, mostly informational programs. With her memory, Astrid prefers not to fill her brain with inconsequential data she can't forget. Talking during programs is very definitely prohibited, he learns after a single gaffe and the withering look he gets in response. From Lincoln's point of view, what's on the screen is less interesting than Astrid's reactions when he shifts closer to her as they're sitting together, until she's comfortable enough with his presence that he feels he can attempt the promised arm around her shoulders. She twitches under his hand the first time, but almost immediately relaxes into his touch, and on subsequent dates he gets an indignant look if he _doesn't_ slide his arm around her as soon as they sit down.

Astrid shares details of her life when Lincoln asks, talking without hesitation about her mother's death and her father's distance. In return he scrounges his recollection for anecdotes to share, those not found in any file. Stories about his brother's delinquency are fertile ground, as well as his own off-the-books exploits from the Academy days.

It takes awhile, but Lincoln belatedly realizes he'd missed this, the long slow buildup. Not that he had any complaints about his sex life-any Fringe agent who did really wasn't trying hard enough. Or at all. But there was something uniquely satisfying about the process of...of _courting_, when the conclusion wasn't necessarily a sure bet.

He has to try with Astrid, think about his actions and choose his words, and Lincoln finds himself chagrinned when he recognizes how much on auto-pilot he's been lately. Astrid had made it starkly clear that she wasn't interested in a longer-term relationship, in no uncertain terms. But even if he goes back to old habits after she's done with him, it's going to be with a little more appreciation for his partners beyond their obvious qualities.

In the meantime Astrid has a dry sense of humor he never would have suspected from the hyper-professional Looker who Lincoln is familiar with from work, and an insatiable curiosity. She begins to ask him questions about his sexual experience, with absolutely no embarrassment and a clinical attention to detail. He'd been right when he'd guessed about the extent of her research, and she wasn't completely unfamiliar with the practice, either; Astrid unselfconsciously showed him her vibrator collection, meticulously lined up in the drawer next to her bed.

They'd progressed smoothly from the first casual touches to a long hug goodnight and finally the first intimate caresses, his fingers stroking down the nape of her neck, her hand on his thigh. Astrid wasn't overly interested in kissing, but last night they'd actually made out like Lincoln hadn't done since high school, hands roving enthusiastically over clothing, eager as teenagers. The feel of her breast in his hand had been a surprising thrill Lincoln hadn't anticipated, her unpracticed gasp as he felt her nipple harden against his palm for the first time still sounding in his ears.

There's a sense of anticipation curling up his spine that he hasn't felt in a long time. Pretending to work isn't taking the edge off at all. "Okay, guys. There's nothing going on, think I'm going to wrap up early today," he says into the air, to his team.

"Got a hot date tonight?" Charlie calls back, smirking.

Lincoln doesn't glance across the room. He doesn't need to look to know that Astrid is listening, but his answer would be the same regardless. "Yes, I do."

{end}

* * *

><p>Title from, appropriately, "Song of Solomon" by Kate Bush: "Don't want your bullshit, yeah  Just want your sexuality."

I didn't set out to have an Astrid-and-Lincoln pair eat Moroccan food _again_ on purpose, I was just looking for a complicated recipe and the pastilla (or bisteeya) is the one that appealed.

Note to self: at some point, you will have to stop writing Red!Lincoln like he's the town bicycle. ...not soon, though.


End file.
